


The Bonds of Family

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-16
Updated: 2007-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it means to be a parent.  And what it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bonds of Family

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://yumemiru-kikai.livejournal.com/13035.html) Written for the 2007 Rare Heroes fic exchange on LJ.

Bubblegum pink fingernails clutch a yellow number 2 pencil, tapping it rhythmically against the textbook in front of her.

Her forehead crinkles in an adorably contemplative expression, as she pokes the pencil eraser between her teeth, flicking her tongue idly against the pink nub.

And he really shouldn’t be watching this. Not like this.

She tucks the pencil behind her ear, shifting her hair back, and his eyes travel downward, following those golden curls over her slouched shoulders, down that athletic back to where they just brush against the patch of bare skin exposed between her tank top and shorts.

God, her beautiful tan skin… He wonders if it tastes as good as it looks; if the slight sheen of sweat on the small of her back would be sweet on his tongue...

Her long legs are lazily crossed at the ankle, the bubblegum pink toes of one foot lazily caressing the back of her calf. Up and down, up and down slowly, _so_ slowly. Silk skin rasping softly against silk skin.

Up and down.

He has to hold his breath to stifle a moan. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

He’s supposed to kiss her forehead, ruffle her hair affectionately and offer to help her with her homework. Maybe tempt her with the promise of milkshakes if she got finished early enough.

He’s supposed to protect her, take care of her; make sure nothing in the world can ever get close enough to hurt her.

He’s supposed to be her father.

Fathers don’t think like this. Don’t look at their little girls and wonder what those delicate hands would feel like against bare skin.

Don’t wonder just how flexible all that cheerleading has made her.

Don’t _want_ so desperately to find out firsthand.

“Enjoying watching me suffer?” Claire snarks, tossing a smile over her shoulder.

He adjusts his glasses, mask falling back into place. “Immensely. Surely there’s no greater torture than algebra 2.”

“Ha ha. My dad, the comedian.” She laughs, twisting around in her chair to face him. “You could help me out a little, you know. You’re good at this…. math stuff.”

Without a second thought, he crosses to her and rests his hands on the back of her chair. He presses a quick kiss to the top of her head, and leans over her, studying the book. “So let’s see… Ah, the quadratic formula. A worthy adversary.”

And just like that he can suppress it. For a little longer.

\-----

His father once sat behind that desk, the polished oak behemoth that dominates the leather lined study. That man had looked small sitting there, care worn, overrun by the internal and external pressures that he was simply too weak to cope with.

He was always too weak.

When he had stepped away from the desk, it was as if he were escaping a prison, shackles and chains visibly falling away as his back became straighter, poise more confident.

But Nathan is different. Nathan thrives here; dominates the desk, the room, hard wood and heavy books serving only to frame his body, every line in the room drawing the eye inexorably towards his chiseled face.

A face that’s currently sneering at a collection of papers.

He doesn’t notice her enter the room. It’s good.

It means she can watch him longer, lazily circling the perimeter of the room to stand behind his black leather chair.

She can see the tension in his jaw, his shoulders twisted visibly under the soft cotton of his blue oxford.

Her blood red nails look good against the fabric. Patriotic. And his firm flesh feels so good under her hands as she digs in deep, roughly massaging the knots away.

He moans involuntarily, head falling forward to give her better access. “Oh god, Ma…”

A frisson of something wicked runs down her spine and she works him harder.

God, he looks just like his father.

His neck is slack; forehead resting on forearms resting on the desk. “Mmm, that feels good… But you don’t have to…” His voice is breathy, exhausted.

“Of course I do, Nathan,” she snaps. “What are mothers for?”

Not the things she’s imagining, certainly, idle thoughts of taut bare skin and strong hands twisting her to the desk; shoving her Chanel skirt up over her thighs and…

“Thank you,” he sighs, turning his head to the side, exposing a fan of long black lashes against his olive cheek.

She’s so close. She could lick them if she wanted to. Could sink her teeth into his earlobe, sliding her tongue up and around the shell of his ear.

His father had always liked that.

She does none of this, instead pressing a motherly kiss to his temple and patting his back dismissively.

“Don’t frown when you work,” she chides, “You’ll give yourself wrinkles, and no one wants to look at an old man.”

He leans back in his chair, staring at her in sarcastic disbelief. “God, thanks, Ma.”

If his attitude offends her, she doesn’t show it, still wrapped in the sense memory of his too warm skin. “You’re welcome, dear.” And she walks away, not looking back.

It happens every day.

\-----

Claire’s not really his daughter.

Claire’s not really anything but an assignment, and if she’s old enough to do stupid things like stay out all night with a boy, then she’s damn well old enough that he shouldn’t feel guilty about imagining her naked.

He still feels guilty, but he also still thinks of her, especially now that he’s hundreds of miles away.

She’s growing up, making her own terrible decisions, disobeying her parents in that pointless teenage way.

He can think of a few ways to make her behave. If she wants to be treated like an adult, then that can certainly be arranged.

Perhaps he would start by tying her to the bed.

His hand moves lower as he imagines all the soft noises she would make, all the sharp gasps and sighs, high whines and pleading moans. _Oh, Daddy… please._

In the morning he takes a shower, puts on his glasses, and does his job.

The next day he returns home, and she smiles and throws her arms around him, same as always

Nothing has really changed.

\-----

They should know better, honestly.

After all these years living in her house, under her rule, they should know that no door stays locked if Angela Petrelli wants it open.

And she wants the study door open very badly. Soft noises filter into the hall, urgent voices struggling to remain quiet.

“I said no,” Nathan commands softly. “This… this is wrong! I could…” his voice breaks off in a choked moan, and the sound makes her knees want to buckle.

“Please, Nathan. I need this…” a breathy sigh from another deep voice and Nathan moans again, a little louder this time, and they can’t _possibly_ be that stupid.

Her fingers find the key she’s been searching for, and she unlocks the door and throws it open in one hard movement. She puts her hands on her hips and does her best to look unimpressed.

It isn’t easy. Nathan’s shirt is unbuttoned, pushed off his shoulders, and he’s braced back against the desk, breathing hard. The man kneeling in front of him has her hair, her eyes, the same long pale neck…

The first feeling that stabs her in the gut is jealousy.

“Oh for god’s sake, Peter, stand up.” She orders, and he complies, red-faced and shaking. His mouth is open, like he wants to scream at her, but she doesn’t give him the chance. “Get out of here. You really are hopeless, aren’t you?”

Nathan interjects, “Ma, it’s not…”

“Shut up, Nathan. When I want your opinion I’ll give it to you.” Her eyes flick downward, and hopefully the color in her cheeks can be mistaken for righteous indignation. “And fasten your pants. For god’s sake…”

Peter is talking, words falling fast about “love” and “want” and “need” and “sorry,” and it’s never been clearer that he has absolutely no idea what any of those words truly mean. Nor does he understand the meaning of restraint.

Petrelli men never do.

She isn’t listening, and pushes him away with a tight hand around his upper arm. “I said go, Peter,” her voice is steel. “You’ve already done enough damage.”

He storms out of the room, leaving the mother and son alone.

“He’s still just a kid, Ma,” Nathan begins by way of apology, “He… he doesn’t know what he wants.”

Her hands grasp the collar of his shirt, elegantly manicured fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she does up the buttons. She moves slowly, savoring the quickness of his pulse so close to her skin.

It’s likely she’ll never have a chance like this again.

“But you were going to give it to him anyway, weren’t you?”

He flushes at her accusation, and she feels the heat under her fingers. It makes her want to sigh; want to smooth her hands back around his bare waist, dig her fingernails into the strong muscles of his back.

Makes her want to fall to her knees and show him how it’s _really_ done.

But restraint is a quality she prides herself on.

“I… I don’t know.” He is quiet, unexpectedly vulnerable. “I don’t know what to do.”

As she fastens the last button, she lets the backs of her hands drag against the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel. It’s almost, _almost_ enough.

Her eyes meet his, all motherly concern, with that edge of stone she’s so good at projecting.

“I’ll tell you what to do, Nathan,” she says authoritatively. “You listen to me. You just do as I say, and everything will be all right.”

He stares back, the determined look he wears so well taking command of his face again. He nods, a small gesture. “All right.”

“Good boy,” she smiles and embraces him, relishing the feeling of his arms around her back, of the slight scent of sweat and sex that still clings to his body.

And if she holds on a little too long, and rakes her nails a little too intimately down his back, he doesn’t say a word.

\-----

He holds her tightly as she sobs into his shoulder, her porcelain-fragile body curled into his and clutching him for dear life.

If he weren’t so blind with rage, he’d enjoy this. Enjoy the feeling of her pressed close, breathing coming in shuddering gasps that push her full breasts against his chest.

But now all he can see is red, all he can envision is that _boy’s_ hands on her, his mouth on hers, trying to take what Claire won’t give him willingly.

His arms wind further around her back, wanting to erase the memories of that night with his own hands, his own lips, as surely as his partner is now erasing that boy’s identity.

Her crying slows, and she begins to still, burying her face in the side of his neck. He pets her hair, soothingly, trying not to linger on the sensation of silk sliding through his fingers.

This is not the time.

“I’m so sorry, Claire-bear,” he whispers gently, and she wraps her arms tighter around his neck.

“I know, Dad,” she mumbles. “I love you.”

Her words are a vibration against his skin that shakes his very core. He can’t live like this. Can’t keep protecting her when she’s wild and holding her when she hurts, and never, ever daring to tip her face up towards his to steal her mouth in a kiss.

Can’t live with her love, like this. He’s a terrible father, in so many ways.

But he also can’t let her go. Doesn’t want to.

“I love you, too, Claire,” he says, and looks away.


End file.
